


Better Than Life

by Anthropos_Metron



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Crisis Core: Final Fantasy VII, Red Dwarf (UK TV)
Genre: Angst, Eventual Fluff, Existential Angst, Gen, Minor references to the dwarf novels, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Retro Gaming, Starbug - Freeform, Three million years old game-level retro gaming
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-18
Updated: 2020-09-18
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:01:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25975603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anthropos_Metron/pseuds/Anthropos_Metron
Summary: A standard 're-supply' trip aboard a Simulant ship turns up some unusual items, leading to Dave indulging an old habit. But at what cost to his emotional equilibrium?I'm imagining this taking place sometime in Series VI, for what it's worth.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	Better Than Life

**Author's Note:**

> Standard disclaimers apply, none of these characters are mine, from either fandom, I'm not makng any IP claims etc etc. Just writing and having fun as a fan.
> 
> I tried to think of a less derivative title, I really did, but this is perfect for what I went with in this fic, on every level. So. This isn't about Better Than Life, but it is about gaming. And... other stuff. You'll see.
> 
> Hope you enjoy, dear reader. My first time in this (RD) fandom. Be gentle. Particular concern should be paid to the fact that while the author still has far too much hair and is not three million years old, they are extremely senile, and so they had difficulty knowing if some of the lines were on-point or simply repetition of stuff buried deep in their fan subconscious.
> 
> Thankfully we get off the jokey dialogue fairly quickly and onto the more pleasant business of retro gaming.

Arnold Judas Rimmer was having one hell of an evening.

Having spent a productive, full and happy day cataloguing the deckplate rivets on Starbug’s lower decks, he had finally retired to his quarters, reconfigured his physical template to vest, underwear, socks and sock suspenders, and had deposited himself in a horizontal position on his bunk. Having done that, he had spent many a happy hour digesting an audiobook, _What are the Poles Doing in Russia – an Oral History of Eastern Bloc Telephone Poles 1954-1979_. Having dined on that grand feast, he had decided to relax with a little light music in the shape of _The Hammond Organ Jubilee ’74 – Party Time at the Old Peoples’ Home._

He was now in a state of near bliss, or as near to bliss as one can be of an evening when one is dead, three million years into deep space, and sharing a ship with a man who likes to trim the hard skin on his feet orally.

It was, therefore, unfortunate that he should be propelled without warning or provocation several feet into the air, resulting in his face connecting sharply with the ceiling of his bunk.

Sometimes, having a hard light body was more smegging problems than it was worth.

He scrambled off the bunk, and rushed over to the computer terminal. Pausing the Hammond playing in his mind, he also restored his uniform. Absent the music, it was clear that the ship was in trouble; alarms blared, and other impacts similar to that which had thrown him into the air pulsed through the ship’s superstructure.

A desire to find out what the smeg was going on somehow won out over a desire to cower in the engine room.

***

Rimmer stood in the doorway of Starbug’s cockpit, which was alive with smoke and raised voices. "What on Io is going on?"

"Rimmer, just sit down and shut up, will yer?" Lister demanded over the din. "This really isn’t a great time right now."

Rimmer did as he was bidden, but after a brief look on the display in front of his seat, his eyes grew as large as saucers, and he turned to the member of the crew most likely to respond to an insistent tone and a good nostril-flaring. "Kryten, I demand you tell me what the smeg is going on."

"Uh, Simultants, Sir. We boarded one of their derelicts while you were resting and stole some of their supplies."

"I wouldn't say we _stole_ anything," Lister protested, reflexively. "We just made off with whatever essential supplies we needed."

"You boarded a Simulant ship without even informing me?" Rimmer asked Lister, aghast. "What would have happened if you’d boarded the ship, been brutally massacred, and I’d been left at the mercy of some psychopathic Simulant killing machine? You could have got me killed!"

"Well, we _thought_ about informing ya, Duke" Lister noted, "but we were in a mood to live dangerously, and imagined we’d probably be fine without the assistance of a man with all the physical courage of a cockroach when the fridge is being moved."

"I resent this," Rimmer noted, in a wounded tone. "I resent you putting me in danger like this. Kryten, make a note – an official reprimand for Lister due to an act of gross idiocy."

"I’ll be happy to do that, Sir," Kryten announced calmly, as one of the cockpit’s smaller consoles exploded, "just once I’m not in the sights of a Simulant gunport about to send me directly to Silicon Heaven, do not pass ‘Go’, do not collect two hundred pieces of laundry."

Lister turned to the Cat. "There’s a dark nebula about one hundred thousand gee-gooks away. Reckon you can get us there?"

The Cat simply looked at him, a picture of pure élan and composure. One of his eyebrows raised itself, fractionally. "Do I look good in yellow and black?"

Lister sat back in his seat, and took a deep breath. It was always reassuring to have a pilot who was _that_ confident.

***

Lister practically bounded down the metal stairs to Starbug’s modest cargo bay.

Stolen Simulant supplies always meant Good Times. Or, at least generally they did. Like all good presents, it was the expectation of what might be inside that lifted your spirits in all cases, moreso than any likely reality. And while you might in fact end up with two tons of suppositories masquerading as medical supplies, you might also end up with practically _anything_ else.

Kryten had been down in the cargo bay, sorting their haul and making an inventory, while he and the Cat had fixed up some of the damaged instruments and got autorepair to work on the rest of the ship. Rimmer had supervised the whole operation, which, to a casual, uninformed observer could be mistaken for doing absolutely smeg-all. Rimmer had reassured them this was not so.

He launched himself off the handrail at the bottom of the stairs, clearing the final steps in a leap, as happy as a kid at Christmas. He had his heart on a lot of beer, a load of poppadoms and a lot of vindaloo ingredients.

Which, come to think of it, was more or less as it was with every Stimulant Theft Christmas.

"So, what we got then, Kryten?"

"Ohhhhhhh, you’re going to like this, Sir!" cooed the Mechanoid.

Lister’s face creased, his mouth falling open into sheer joy. " _Yeeeahhhe-h-e-h_. What is? Fags? Holopornos? Enough beer to drown a planet?"

"Uh, sadly some bad news on the fermented vegetable products front, Sir. No beer - it’s five hundred bottles of premium quality champagne."

Lister’s body slumped, his euphoria vanishing. "Oh. Well, nevermind. You can’t get everything you want, can ya? Beats urine recyc at least."

"That may be debatable, Sir – it’s from a vineyard in Lincolnshire. However," Kryten noted, with the tonal satisfaction of a Mechanoid who has successfully emotionally manipulated a human, " _Better news_ on the foodstuffs front."

Lazarus-like, Lister’s grin returned, a wave of expectant joy washing over him. "Is it, perhaps, curry-related good news?" he asked, playfully.

"Is my head shaped like a half-expended pencil eraser?" Kryten asked, rhetorically. He drew a little closer to Dave, and brought his hands forward to emphasise what was to come. "Enough to keep us in vindaloo for at least nine months!"

" _Yeah-ehhhhhhh_!" Lister did a little dance, and punched the air. "Get in! Tonight, Kryten, we dine like kings!"

 _Curry_.

"Indeed, Sir. Oh, and one more thing – what appears to be a varied selection of miscellaneous games and entertainment systems."

Lister frowned. "Games? It’s not smeggin’ Better Than Life is it?"

"No Sir, much earlier – mostly turn-of-the-millennium games from what I can tell."

"Weird. What d’ya reckon the Simulants were doing with this stuff?"

"Unknown, Sir. Trade goods they’d plundered from GELFs, perhaps."

Lister pushed his chin out a little in concession to his curiosity. "Well – bring ‘em up and we’ll have a quick shufti." His mood rose again, considering the possibilities. "A night of champagne, curry, and gaming awaits us."

Brutal.


End file.
